Black by Rose

by Andrew Barrett

  “We’re in the wrong job, Tom,” Miles said, eyes taking in the surroundings.

  “Maybe, but at least the chances of your kids being shot are fairly slim.”

  Benson pulled up behind a silver Mercedes just outside the front door, hoping he was blocking the path of any other vehicles. “Okay,” he said, looking across at Miles, “No fucking laughing.”

  They walked up the steps and stood beneath the columned porch waiting for the door. A light in the hall came on and the door opened. Benson looked at the fat man, “Monty,” he said.

  “Come in, Mr Benson.”

  Benson and Miles followed Monty along the hall and into the lounge. Slade Crosby and his equally evil son, Tyler both stood by the fireplace, watching them come in.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Slade asked.

  Benson cleared his throat, “I’m afraid he is, Mr Crosby.”

  “How?” Tyler asked.

  “We’re still doing some work on that.”

  “Where?”

  “Near a stream, in Garforth.”

  Slade closed his eyes and took a long breath in through his nose. He was going to say “Garforth, again?” but of course he couldn’t; because as far as the law was concerned “Garforth, the first time” never happened.

  “We’ll be appointing a family liaison officer, Mr Crosby, to keep you informed—”

  “Fuck that.” Slade sipped from a glass. “All I want to know from you lot is who did it, and how.”

  “But that’s—”

  “I said no!” Slade handed the glass to Tyler. “Fill it.” He looked across to Benson, “Want one?”

  Benson shook his head, “No ta.” Then Slade approached, and Benson breathed in, tensed up. Miles took a step back.

  “Stick your liaison officer up your arse. Get me names.”

  Benson blinked. “Mr Crosby—”

  Then Miles butted in, “We know you’re upset, Mr Crosby, and we’re doing everything we can…”

  Slade stared fixedly at Benson, his eyes widening with each of Miles’ words until he peered around Benson’s shoulder and stared at him. Miles became quiet, and Slade returned his attention to Benson. “Occupational hazard, Mr Benson.” He turned away, took the drink from Tyler. “I’ve been waiting for this day for a dozen years; it’s no shock to me.”

  Benson looked at the surviving son, Tyler, and was dismayed there was no discernible reaction from him.

  “Just names, Mr Benson. That’s all I want from you.”

  “I’m going across to Blake’s house now.”

  “What for?”

  “To have a look round. And I want his computer.”

  “Why?”

  “To have a look round.” Benson stared at Slade. Not many people could intimidate him, but Slade Crosby was one of them. He forced himself to remain rigid, indignant. “If you need anything from in there, you come to me; we’re locking it down.”

  “How long?”

  “Long as required. I won’t ask if you know why anyone would want him dead.”

  Monty growled, “Out of order, Mr Benson.”

  “We’ll apprise you of our findings in due course.”

  “When can we have his remains back?” Monty asked.

  “Yeah, we have a funeral to arrange,” Slade said.

  Benson slid his hands into his pockets, eyes flitting around the room as though looking for something. “This is why a family liaison—”

  Slade was in Benson’s face in an instant. Miles backed away to the door, but Benson stood his ground and this seemed to inflame Slade even more. “Don’t you fucking listen?” He spat into Benson’s face as he shouted, but neither even noticed. “I’ll crush you, Benson. You start fucking about with my family, and I’ll crush you.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  “Mr Crosby. Sit the fuck down. Now.”

  Slade looked from eye to eye, searching the man, greedily looking for the fear that he knew was there.

  “I said sit.”

  Monty moved to cover Miles, not that Miles had the slightest intention of doing anything other than leaving, and Tyler moved closer to Benson’s back, hands flexing into fists.

  And suddenly, Slade’s face relaxed, his eyes left Benson’s alone, and a fake smile dismissed the snarl. He even laughed, “Okay, Mr Benson; everything’s fine. I just lost my boy; you can understand that, eh?”

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Looking forward to it,” Slade retook his seat and Benson walked to the door.

  * * *

  “Who works Garforth?” Slade asked. He’d watched the coppers leave, and he knew full well they’d be laughing their bollocks off. That must have been one of the highlights of Benson’s shitty career to date; giving him some bad news. Well, Slade Crosby had had worse news from better coppers than him. It didn’t change the fact that Blake was dead.

  “I said who works Garforth?”

  Monty swallowed the last of the biscuits and shrugged, “We ain’t got nobody working Garforth. So small you could fucking spit over it; nothing there, man.”

  “So what the fuck was he doing there?” Slade fell into a chair and realised, quite suddenly, that he was getting somewhere near being drunk. Good; he liked being drunk. It took away the shit from the day and left him with his own thoughts. Being drunk was almost an impenetrable barrier for bad news.

  Except that was crap too. He looked at the glass of Pernod and knew that his outburst to Benson, about it being an occupational hazard was to a degree correct. But he’d lied when he said he’d expected it for the last dozen years. “Can’t show them your weaknesses.” Truth was, he hadn’t expected it all. Maybe Tyler – he was sharp and hard, and he got people’s backs up sometimes – but Blake was a puppy dog. An arsehole, granted, but soft like a puppy dog.

  And then Monty said something. Slade looked up, shocked. “Rachel?”

  “Dad. Tyler.”

  “I thought I should ring her, chief.”

  “Rachel, come in, come in. Monty, get Rachel—”

  “I’m not stopping, Dad.”

  Slade looked her up and down; from the pink hair down to the Converse trainers. He blinked, the disappointment clear in his face, and he held out a hand. For a moment, he looked like he might cry. “Please, Rachel; just for tonight. I’ll have your room made up.” She was shaking her head. “I need my family around me tonight!”

  “Robin is in the car; I said I wouldn’t be long.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Robin. Right.” And then he smiled at her, “Bring him in. Monty, bring Robin in.”

  “No, Dad. I’ll tell you what I know about Blake and then—”

  “What you know?” Tyler stood forward. “You’ve seen him?”

  Rachel nodded. “Ten minutes. He came to see me at work. Wanted my advice.”

  Slade sat down, looked at her intently. “Advice about what?”

  Rachel swallowed, appeared afraid of her father. “Women. He wanted to know how to treat them right.”

  Tyler gave a laugh, and was about to state the obvious, about to say “How does a rapist treat a woman right? He leaves her alone”. But he saw his father’s face, and obviously decided now was not the time, and this was not the company.

  “And why would he say that?”

  “He was about to meet someone, he said.” She swallowed again, interlaced her fingers so tightly that her nails turned white. “From an internet dating site.”

  Slade covered his eyes with a hand that shook ever so slightly. “Why didn’t he come and see me.” It was not a question; it was a statement, a statement from a father who now believed he had failed his youngest son. “I would have helped, I could have—”

  “I’m not here to get into a debate, Dad, about why this or why that.”

  “No, cos you couldn’t give a shit!” Tyler shouted.

  She looked at him. Nodded slowly, and said, “I think I’d better leave.”

  “No, no you don’t. I want to know what el
se he said. Rachel, you tell me now. Please.”

  “That was it, more or less. He said he was ready for commitment; he didn’t want to… he didn’t want to go with prostitutes any more. He said she was a bookkeeper, honest and respectable. And that’s why he wanted advice on how to treat a woman.”

  “When was he meeting her, Rachel?” Monty asked from the doorway.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Did he say where?”

  She shook her head, licked her lips, “No, sorry.”

  “Sorry!” Tyler shouted.

  “Tyler, give it a fucking rest.” Slade looked at him. He looked then at Rachel through a sheen of tears, “I’m sorry I swore, love. Look, Rachel, stay the night, bring Robin in. Maybe in the morning you’ll remember more.”

  Rachel turned and took a few steps towards the door. Monty stood there, almost as wide as the doorframe, and an inch or two taller. Slade nodded at him, and he stepped aside, “Let me get the front door for you,” he said.

  “Rachel.”

  She stopped, turned slowly towards her father.

  “No need to trouble the police with this. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Good girl. We’ll be making our own enquiries.”

  * * *

  As Monty was closing the front door, the gates opened again and an old diesel pickup truck ambled in and squealed to a stop. Monty watched as Jagger, Pikey and Ste climbed out.

  Monty came down the steps to them.

  “Any news?” Jagger asked.

  “Blake is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Killed in Garforth. We don’t know who did it, how or why. So,” he took hold of Ste, “if you don’t want your faces all across the floor, man, best stay in the staff house till it’s time for the job.”

  “Must know something,” Jagger said.

  Monty looked at the lad. The other two, Ste and Pikey, took off across the turning circle to the staff house, engaged in fierce whispering. “Where’s Wasp?”

  “He’s meeting us later; wanted to get home for some reason.”

  Monty nodded, considering a response to the “must know something”. “All we know is he was using an internet dating site.”

  Jagger’s face screwed up, “I don’t get it,” he said. “He’s got his pick of the girls—”

  “Never mind why; that’s what happened, that’s where we think he ran into trouble.”

  “You checked his computer? It might give you her name.”

  “It’ll be password protected. Anyway, the coppers are round his gaff now seizing it.”

  “Shame. Wasp is good at stuff like that; he’s always on about breaking codes to get inside stolen laptops.”

  “Is he, now?” Monty turned; ready to go back into the house. “I’ll mention it to Slade; you go get your gear ready for the job. And then shift that heap o’ shit off the drive.”

  * * *

  “You reckon it could’ve been Shylock?”

  Slade held out his empty glass and Tyler took it. “You know something I don’t? Forget the Pernod, get me a cup of tea.”

  “We’ve never seen eye to eye with him, have we? He’s always trying it on, dipping his hands in our till.”

  “Petty theft. That’s all that is; everyone does it now and then, just to re-establish boundaries. But killing my boy… that’s fucking war talk is that.”

  “You reckon we should pay him a visit, sound him out maybe?”

  Monty closed the front door, Slade heard the big man walking down the hall and into the lounge. “Chief?”

  “I might go see him. Give it a day or two though.” He turned to Monty, “What?”

  “I called her. Hope you didn’t mind.”

  “Called who?”

  “Rachel.”

  “Why?”

  “Cos Blake said he was gonna see her—”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Rewind. He told you he was going to see Rachel?”

  Monty nodded.

  “When?”

  “Couple o’ weeks ago. Maybe ten days.”

  “Did he tell you why?” Tyler asked.

  “Yeah, said he wanted advice; just like she told you.”

  “And you didn’t think to pass this on to me?” Slade’s voice was quiet, but beneath it bubbled pure anger. His fingertips tapped on the leather seat, but now they were scratching, gouging.

  “It didn’t matter until Mr Benson showed up, chief.”

  “Didn’t matter?”

  “So I thought I should ring her, Rachel, I mean, tell her to come and see you with what she knew.”

  “How come I’m the last person to know any-fucking-thing around here!”

  “Sorry, chief,” Monty’s head hung low. And then he said, “Jagger just came up with something good.”

  Slade stared.

  “Does Blake only have one computer?”

  “How the fuck should I know? No one tells me anything, remember?”

  Tyler brought a mug of tea through from the kitchen. “You mean did Blake only have one computer.”

  “Quick to forget, aren’t you, boy?”

  He nodded at Slade, and then he squinted at Monty as though in thought. “You know what, you might’ve struck gold there.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “He’s got an old desktop at his house. I don’t think he uses it much. But he’s always got his head stuck in his—”

  “iPad!” Monty clicked his fingers. “Bang on!”

  “And I’m pretty sure it’s in the staff house.”

  “Go get it, Monty. And make sure they’re ready to go.”

  “Righto,” Monty turned to leave.

  “And tell them, there’s a two grand bonus each if it goes without a hitch, okay?”

  Monty left, and Tyler put his drink down, “I’d better get ready too.”

  “What for?”

  “The job.”

  “You’re staying here where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I’m second lookout, Dad.”

  “You’re staying put!”

  “Why?”

  “Till I find out for sure who killed Blake, you’re staying put. Is that fucking clear?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  — One —

  And still the rain fell.

  It was midnight, and Ros drove home in a daze after finishing late at the office. Paperwork: the bane of modern policing. She had done most of it in a trance, and the trance continued now as she pulled into her road and parked at the kerbside behind a huge Dodge Ram pickup truck. She shut down the engine, turned off the lights, and sat in the darkness just letting her mind continue its wandering as the rain grew louder on the roof.

  She was thinking about Brian.

  Men called Brian were solid and reliable, maybe even a little boring. They were staid and dependable. Or so she had thought. It was just something about their name – the mundaneness of it, its banality. Men called Brian would never be heroes, they would never pull their damsel off the rails before the steam loco sliced them in three; they would never take a bullet for the president. Those attributes belonged to men called Kurt. But Brians could be counted on to be loyal, steadfast, strong and diligent.

  Except her Brian.

  Her Brian was a bastard.

  He’d started out being strong and diligent. In fact he was a proper gentleman; he believed in old-fashioned values: he opened doors for her, he offered his coat if she was cold, he bought her flowers every Friday, just in time to begin the weekend with a little romance, weekends they often spent away. Scarborough one weekend, Paris the next, even a long weekend in Rome. He was wonderful, was Brian.

  Ros sighed, and climbed out of the car and into the rain. She locked the door and looked up at the dark bedroom window.

  He was still wonderful even after they got married. He was made redundant from the council where he worked as a gardener. The redundancy was a huge blow, but it was a cloud lined with pure silver as far as he was concerned, because he’d only m
entioned a couple of times about setting up his own landscape business, before Ros had agreed to use her savings and fund him.

  He was her husband. He was loyal, steadfast Brian Craven, and they did everything together. They laughed and cried together, they got rich and poor together.

  Almost.

  She unlocked the front door and closed it quietly behind her. Rain dripped from her coat and suddenly she felt cold. She peered up the dark stairs and could picture him lying in bed, dreaming of her. She shivered.

  So, how was she going to handle it then? This couldn’t go on for much longer. At the very least she would be reprimanded at work for mistakes, at the worst she would drive into a damned tree without even going near the brake pedal. It had to come out; it needed resolution. At the very least, for now, it needed airing.

  She swallowed, and hung up her coat.

  But dare she?

  The business had floundered to begin with. The bank wouldn’t fund him. Ros handed over another cheque, and then another cheque. Then it began to flourish at last. The advertising she had paid for finally yielded results, and she even passed his name around at work, put his business card up on the cork notice board, and eventually his phone rang constantly and his diary bulged. Things were on the up; his mood was buoyant at last and he began to smile like he did in the old days. But things weren’t the same.

  Was it the cessation of weekend trips because of his business?

  She shrugged. Maybe, she thought. But there was something else going on too, there was a subtle shift in power. Ros had the upper hand mentally; she was the stronger of the two, the wiser, the more logical. He was fanciful, extravagant, artistic. Her upper hand had diminished like her savings, and with it the power shifted to him. He grew less tolerant, seemed content to let doors slam in her face, and was too busy to be romantic. He was tired, grumpy. He began shouting.

  Ros withdrew to safety inside her mind. Evenings spent watching the television weren’t relaxing anymore. They had tension in them; she became slightly uncomfortable in his company, but could never pin it down to anything.

  I should just wake him gently, ask him if everything’s okay. We can sort this out; we can talk our way through it like adults. But do I want to sort it out? Do I want to live with a man I no longer trust?